by Jodi Taylor
He tapped his ear and turned to us. Peterson and I were looking everywhere but at each other.
‘He seemed a bit unstable for former SAS, but maybe I’m not the only one who can’t get the staff these days.’ He paused to readjust his ideas. ‘Justin, send flowers to St Brenda’s Nursing Home in Bath. Lots of flowers. And chocolates. And one of those gift voucher things so they can get a pram or something. Or nappies. Send lots of nappies. And those cute suit things that babies wear … I don’t know. Do people still do pink for boys and blue for girls? … Are you sure? Well, send both to be on the safe side. It’ll be one or the other. And fruit. I’ve read somewhere that women need a lot of fruit after childbirth. Send a fruit basket every day. And a card. Give it to Chelsea – she can forge my signature better than I can. Have it all delivered today. And stick in a note asking her what she’s done with the script for Fanny Price – The True Story. And where are the budget figures for the thing on Bonnie Prince Charlie? And about the contracts, of course.’
‘Do you think we could keep him?’ murmured Peterson. ‘He’s rather good value, don’t you think?’
We bundled him upstairs to Dr Bairstow’s office, which was, mercifully, foetid-vapour free, and finally got him sat down. Mrs Partridge placed a cup of tea in front of him which he ignored. I saw her lips tighten and hastened to thank her because you really don’t want to get on the wrong side of Mrs Partridge.
I don’t think he stopped talking the whole time. I’d never seen him so excited. It was a miracle his ear didn’t drop off.
‘Hello. Justin. Yes. Write this down. An historical society. Dull as ditch water on the surface. But hiding a secret. They’re secret time travellers – changing history for the better. Bringing back the dinosaurs. Which escape and terrorise … oh I don’t know, how about Edinburgh? We could have them rampaging down Princes Street and destroying the castle. They help Boadicea when she defends London from Julius Caesar. They save Elizabeth I from the Great Fire of London.’
‘No,’ I said, feebly.
‘Freeing the princes in the Tower when Richard III tries to murder them.’
‘He probably didn’t,’ I said, even more feebly.
‘There’ll be a handsome hero.’
Peterson preened. On what grounds remained unclear.
‘And a beautiful heroine – stacked, of course.’
Someone made some sort of noise, but when I stared at them suspiciously, Peterson was staring at his feet and Dr Bairstow was gazing serenely out of the window.
‘She keeps having to be rescued, of course. From Pharaoh’s harems. From being burned at the stake. You know the sort of thing. She falls in love with a Viking and brings him back to the modern day. Could he have superpowers? We could start with the Mayflower and the brave pilgrims fleeing religious persecution.’
‘They didn’t,’ I said feebly. ‘They emigrated because England wasn’t strict enough for their…’
He wasn’t listening. ‘Well, I don’t know – a tunnel, maybe. Or a time rift. They’re always popular. Especially in Cardiff. Or,’ he said, rifling through David Sands’ by now quite bedraggled manuscript, ‘some sort of time-travelling amulet they discover when raiding a secret South American ziggurat. Like in that film with that woman who pouts a lot. That could happen. We’ll sort something out. Talk to you later.’
I tried again. ‘But…’
The Boss waved me into silence. ‘An exciting idea, Mr Cutter. I think you have a winner there. You can rely on St Marys’ to provide you with everything you need.’ He opened his desk drawer and pulled out a bottle and two glasses. ‘Shall we sit down and thrash out the details?’ He ran an experienced eye over two of his most senior members of staff. ‘Dr Peterson, Dr Maxwell, please do not let us detain you.’
We exited slowly and with great dignity – as befitted two senior officers in a top-secret government establishment. Through Mrs Partridge’s office and around the gallery. We descended the stairs wearing our best responsibility-laden expressions, worked our way through the boiling mass of historians in the Hall, out through the front doors and down the steps into the very nearly fresh air. And then – and only then – were we able to let go at last.
It took some time. Peterson’s a giggler and every time I thought I’d got myself back under control he’d catch my eye and off we’d go again. Until finally…
‘Haven’t done that in a long time,’ he said, straightening up and wiping his eyes.
‘No.’
‘You all right now?’
‘I think so. Yes.’
‘So,’ he said, smoothing down his hair and striking a noble pose. ‘Who do you think they’ll get to play me?’
I took a deep breath. ‘Lassie, probably,’ and stamped off to suss out the damage.
Yeah, Thursday was quite exciting.
Friday, however, was aftermath day.
Friday
The next morning, straight after breakfast, Leon and I called in to Sick Bay. Leon had another medical appointment and I wanted to see how Mr Bashford was doing, still bruised and bloody from his encounter with the deity-bashing young men. As his supervisor, I was supposed to care. Sykes, Markham and Peterson came along for the ride and, as Sykes said, to see if his compost was mentis.
Leaving Leon in the probably capable hands of Dr Stone, we wandered into the men’s ward.
Bashford was sitting up in bed, propped against his pillows, looking interestingly pale and with a massive bruise on one cheekbone. He had a split lip and both hands were cut and swollen, so he and his trusty sidekick had obviously given a good account of them-selves.
Angus, from whom he had tearfully refused to be parted, was sitting happily on his lap, crooning gently. They gazed adoringly at each other.
Have I remembered to say that Angus is a chicken?
It says much for St Mary’s that we’d apparently had a chicken roaming the corridors since Tuesday and, apart from Calvin Cutter, no one appeared to have noticed. Nurse Hunter was giving him vigorously to understand that keeping a chicken on his wardrobe – no, actually keeping a chicken anywhere in a medical facility – was unacceptable.
‘I have to,’ he said, tragically. ‘If Dr Bairstow finds out…’
‘You surely don’t intend to keep him,’ I said.
‘Her,’ he said, tickling the back of her neck. She closed her eyes in bliss.
‘You can’t keep her. We’re not allowed pets.’
‘I don’t see why not. When you think of the amount of wildlife Markham has harboured over the years … fleas, lice, fungus, tapeworms, every type of bacteria known to man…’
‘And probably still is,’ said Hunter nastily, obviously not in a good mood and having a go at everyone in sight.
‘Not voluntarily,’ he said to her. ‘Trust me, no one chooses to have ringworm.’
‘It’s the fact that ringworm so frequently chooses you that is the point of my argument.’
‘How can you be maundering on about ringworm when there’s a bloody great chicken in the room?’ he said, indignant over yet another of the world’s injustices.
She pointed at her patient, still obliviously chatting to his chicken. ‘It was Bashford who brought the subject up.’
‘I can’t believe you’re siding with a man who has a chicken on his lap.’
‘After you, anything looks good.’
Peterson caught my eye and grinned.
‘Where would you keep her?’ I asked, feeling someone should address the practicalities.
He’d obviously thought it through. ‘She likes wardrobes. She can live in mine during the day and sleep on it at night.’
‘No, she bloody can’t,’ said Sykes with a certain amount of menace. ‘At least not unless you want to be up there with her.’
I suspected he hadn’t thought it through quite enough.
It seemed there was going to be a certain amount of blood up the walls and I was just marshalling my conflict-resolution skills when we heard a murmur of
voices on the other side of the door. The door handle rattled dramatically. The traditional St Mary’s sign that Dr Bairstow was here and we were all doomed.
Bashford scooped up Angus and shoved her under the bedcovers where, surprised but willing, she stamped around, making herself comfortable, and apparently perfectly at home in her new surroundings.
We all turned to face the door.
After all these years, Dr Bairstow must surely be accustomed to the guilty silence that falls whenever he enters a room. I think he quite likes it. It shows he’s doing his job properly.
We stood grouped around the bed, a tableau of caring supervisors and colleagues come to visit the sick. Nothing to find fault with there.
The bedclothes bulged unfortunately as Angus settled herself more comfortably and, having arranged things to her satisfaction, uttered a long, low chicken noise of contentment.
I found I couldn’t look.
Bashford, caught between either admitting to the world’s most massive groin malfunction, or explaining why he had a chicken in his bed, closed his eyes and pretended he was dead. Which was probably only anticipating events by a few minutes.
Dr Bairstow – who was, I suspected, perfectly aware of the existence of Angus in his unit, as indeed, he was aware of everything that happened at St Mary’s, and had only stopped in for a little light entertainment at the expense of his staff – stood like the proverbial pillar of salt.
I made sure I stood behind Sykes, who just for once in her life could be useful. Hunter suddenly began to bash away at her scratchpad, Markham was busily tucking into Bashford’s grapes, and Peterson was staring thoughtfully out of the window, to all appearances mulling over some tricky temporal conundrum.
‘Good morning, Mr Bashford.’
The silence went on until Bashford, realising he’d been abandoned in his hour of need, seized the bedclothes and prepared, somewhat painfully, to get out of bed and, possibly, to flee the country.
The point of Dr Bairstow’s stick pushed him firmly back against his pillows. ‘I think I speak for all of us, Mr Bashford, when I say we would be grateful if you could remain exactly where you are.’
‘But, sir…’
I had to get out. Now.
At the same time, Markham said plaintively that his arm hurt.
‘I’d better take a look at that,’ said Hunter instantly, pushing him towards the door.
‘I have to…’ I said, and stopped, suffering a complete inspiration failure.
‘… write my…’ said Sykes.
‘… report…’ I finished, and we all bolted for the door, headed by Peterson, showcasing senior management’s usual loyalty and commitment in a crisis.
Outside, Dr Stone, still talking to Leon, looked up, astonished, as we burst through, closing the door thankfully on whatever was about to happen to Bashford.
‘What on earth is the matter? Is it Bashford?’ He began to move towards the door.
Hunter took a deep breath, but before any of us could reply, the door opened and Dr Bairstow limped into the reception area with Angus clamped firmly under one arm. Apparently thrilled with this new and enhanced view of the world, she was looking around with bright-eyed interest. In many ways, she reminded me of Sykes.
He limped past us murmuring, ‘Good morning.’
We chorused, ‘Good morning, Dr Bairstow,’ like infant schoolchildren. He called up the lift, the doors opened, and he stepped inside, Angus bobbing her head happily at this unexpected treat.
The doors closed. They disappeared. It had taken him approximately eight point seven seconds to resolve the Angus crisis. Although to what end…
‘You don’t think he’s going to eat her, do you?’ said Hunter anxiously.
‘No,’ we said, unconvincingly.
‘Dammit,’ said Sykes, in despair. ‘Bashford’s only conscious for an hour or so each day and now I have to share him with a bloody chicken.’
‘Cheer up,’ said Leon, who was trying not to laugh. ‘It could be worse.’
‘How?’
‘He might be conscious all day.’
She brightened. ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’
Anyway, to cut a long story short, rather to everyone’s surprise, and probably as a reward for saving Bashford from serious injury, Angus was allowed to remain at St Mary’s. I believe Dr Bairstow made several cruel remarks about raising the level of intelligence in the History Department. She spends her days hanging around the stables and her nights on top of Bashford’s wardrobe where she utters a series of crooning noises in his direction before settling down contentedly.
As far as I know, the two of them are very happy, although Sykes wouldn’t speak to him for a week and Housekeeping refuse to go anywhere near his room.
I bundled up everyone’s reports, and signed and initialled all the paperwork. I was expecting all sorts of grief over – well, everything, really. Calvin Cutter, the manuscript, Bashford, Angus, exploding rocks – it was all a bit of a perfect storm. Anyway, at his command, I presented myself to Dr Bairstow that morning. Mrs Partridge waved me through. I searched her face for some clue as to his mood, but she was wearing her usual expression. The one that gives me to understand I rank somewhere beneath blue-green algae in the great scheme of things.
‘Please do not delay him this morning, Dr Maxwell. A deputation from the Parish Council will be arriving at eleven o’clock.’
Oh God – the rural mafia were on their way.
I took a deep breath and entered. ‘Good morning, Dr Bairstow.’
He was staring out of his window. ‘Good morning, Dr Maxwell. An update, please.’
‘All the fires were easily extinguished, sir. The car park has been cleared of debris and shrapnel. Everyone’s cars have been returned unharmed. The building sustained two broken windows but Mr Strong reports no structural damage. Dr Stone reports no major injuries, although Dr Dowson did sprain his wrist when Professor Rapson fell off his stepladder.’
‘Clarify.’
‘He fell on him, sir.’
I paused in case he had something to say about that, but no. I carried on. ‘The horses have returned to the paddock. Mr Markham has received medical treatment for minor Turk-related injuries.’
‘Serious?’
‘Just a nip, sir.’
‘I meant for the horse.’
‘Oh, no sir, I believe Mr Strong has some sort of antiseptic equine mouthwash for these occasions. Both Markham and Turk are expected to make a full recovery. In other news, sir, Mr Dieter reports the repairs to Hawking are complete and everything is ready for our next assignment next Monday. And um…’ I paused and braced myself.
‘Yes, Dr Maxwell?’
‘I’m very sorry, sir, I don’t know how it happened but, somehow, in all the confusion, Mr Cutter appears to have walked off with Mr Sands’ manuscript.’
He continued to stare out of the window. ‘Ah well, no great harm done.’
I blinked. ‘But sir, he was talking about making a movie or a holo. About time travel. Based on Mr Sands’ story.’
‘Yes, I believe he was.’
‘But won’t it be even worse if they make a movie out it than if he publishes the book?’
‘Of course not, Dr Maxwell. When have you ever known a movie to bear even a passing resemblance to the book from which it is adapted? Once the entertainment industry gets its hands on it, the original work will be completely unrecognisable, trust me.’
‘Oh.’
‘And given their normal rate of progress, it could be years before it even goes into production. With luck, we will all be dead by then.’
‘I shall keep my fingers crossed for an early demise, sir.’
‘I have no doubt that you will be successful, Dr Maxwell. Thank you, that will be all.’
I turned to go and then had a sudden thought. ‘Oh, by the way, sir, did Mr Cutter sign the contracts?’
‘What? Oh, yes, I believe so.’
He believed so? He believed so
?
‘I thought it was a matter of financial life and death, sir.’
‘Oh no. The cost of repairing Hawking is so astronomical that even the national debt pales into insignificance in comparison. Nothing we could do would even dent it.’
‘But you said this was important, sir.’
‘And so it was.’
He turned around, his back to the window, face unreadable.
‘But not as important or as welcome as the sight of you and Dr Peterson laughing together again. Thank you, Dr Maxwell, that will be all.’
THE END
THE FROGMORTON
FARM SERIES
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